


Flowers and Time: An Evans' Story

by smolder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 17,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolder/pseuds/smolder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which hard loss makes for a very different Petunia opening the door to find Lily's little boy on her welcome mat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one: this shared wonderous daydream

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She thinks about Lily a lot as the months go by and her stomach grows. The round lump protruding proudly from her previously always almost too skinny frame.

Lily is to have a child as well she knows from her last letter. She wishes in these moments that her sister and her weren’t so very estranged…that Lil’s weren’t with those…people. She wishes for someone to share this with.

Because Petunia has never been so happy. Her house in Little Whinging, a husband with a steady job, and a baby on the way. She has a life, a _family_.

 _Lils_ she thinks pausing in washing the dishes that night to gaze out the window at the star filled sky, _why couldn’t you be normal or why couldn’t I be a…_ but she cuts that thought off quickly (She always has since that letter told her it was never to be, that she couldn’t join her sister at Hogwarts – and Petunia has always been practical, even as a child and would never let herself pine for things out of her grasp) scrubbing harder at the frying pan and blames the old want even resurfacing on her hormones. She steadfastly ignores the stray tears.

Vernon and her whisper in bed at night about names – he wants a boy, and to be perfectly honest she would be happy with either, but pretends to be set on a girl just so they have something to argue about. They talk about all of the different things they will do with their child - the toys they’ll buy them, the silly little games they’ll play, the school they’ll send them to, the trips they’ll all go on as a family.

A _family_.

They weren’t quite in love when they married (there was a definite fondness there but not quite _love_ ) – it was more out of convenience and the understanding that they both wanted the same thing to be honest. But Petunia thinks they fall in love over this shared wondrous daydream of family.


	2. chapter 2: never wish this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

And then - then it all goes wrong.

Pains in her stomach months early and she goes to the hospital right away. Vernon is called at work and rushes over red in the face in time for the doctor to tell them the news together. She is supposes she is grateful for that but the moment that word is spoken she is numb, nothing else seems to matter.

_Miscarriage_

She wants something to blame, _someone_ to rail against. Wants to be angry – wants to feel something.

But there is nothing now. All of those dreams whispered close in the night, the life growing slowly inside of her month by month – day by day. The life she could feel. It is all gone now.

Dead.

And she can feel nothing.

. ****

 

The coffin is small.

Vernon reaches out blindly for her hand during the burial but she doesn’t look at him. Can’t look away from her little boy being lowered into the ground. Her husband is breathing deeply beside her, trying not to cry, and she can feel her bones rubbing together from the tightness of his grip.

But she doesn’t cry, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. _Can’t._ Can’t look away until her view of the casket is obstructed by dirt. Only then does she close her eyes.

Only then does she bite her lip and pray. Petunia has never been religious but in this moment it doesn’t seem to matter and she prays for the only family she has left – and that is all that matters.

For Lily. For her child. Because despite all of their differences, despite all of the animosity (all of the pain and anger and jealousy) she has felt over the years, she would never _never_ wish this on her sister.


	3. chapter 3: same blankness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

The divorce is amicable, there is no yelling, no hard feelings between them. No feelings _at all_ anymore. They lay still beside each other at night, still and silent.

But even that is not to be any more. She looks into the Vernon’s eyes as she hands the signed form back and sees the same blankness she sees every morning in the mirror. She wonders how she missed it the past few months - or if she had seen it and it just hadn’t really registered.

She doesn’t know if either of them will ever have life back - this has hit them both hard, so hard and it is difficult to find footing again – but Petunia wishes nothing but good for her ex-husband and he obviously feels the same, knowing her without a job and place to stay, leaves her the house in the settlement.

As he leaves and the door closes though she wonders the wisdom of that choice. She has little use of a house big enough for an entire family – feels like a ghost now within this place that was meant to be a _home_ – a place that she herself decorated but now seems utterly alien to her.

She finds herself spending her days moving from room to room aimlessly. Picking up nick knacks absentmindedly, just staring at things. Leaving only to go to the corner store to pick up enough food for herself – just her now (she has never lived alone).

She loses herself in this. Loses time, days, weeks.

Months perhaps. (How is one to tell?)

She is in what was meant to be _His_ nursery when she comes to herself with a start – a bodily wrench that is as much physical as it is mental as she realizes what damage she is doing to herself. Petunia looks, as if for the first time, around her at the house she had so happily kept clean (once upon a time) is now covered in a thick layer of dust – there are food wrappers everywhere – and she doesn’t want to think about how dirty she is.

Firmly she gets to work. Petunia cleans herself first, even though she knows she will get dirty later, it makes her feel better. Free of grime she feels more like herself than she has since….

She stubbornly stops that thought before it starts, refuses to go back into the downward spiral she had been trapped within.

She cleans steadily over the next days a frenetic energy about herself where before there was only such lethargy. She washes all of her sheets, all of her clothes. She dusts the ceilings and walls, sweeps and scrubs the floors – and any other surface. She washes the dishes.

Biting her lip and swallowing hard - with a great effort and inner steel she never realized she had she…she packs up His room.

When that is done. She looks about her clean house and goes to the store for more boxes.

There is no reason for her to stop there.

No reason for her to stay.


	4. chapter 4: a wave of wistful longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

With the packing done and the phone call to the estate agent out of the way she lets herself take a break and sits outside with her tea.

Petunia stares at the street almost hungrily as she drinks Earl Grey, not want to allow her mind a moment of stillness. It is on the second pass that she notices the cat.

The tabby cat was staring at her. Not just gazing in her general direction in a curious or disdainful manner as cats tend to do but quite clearly staring at her with very human intelligence.

It is the sort of oddity that makes her think of her sister and a wave of wistful longing rises up in her instead of the usual jealousy and pain that accompanies thoughts of Lily. For about the dozenth time in the past weeks Petunia wished she had a way to contact her sister.

The sadness makes her stand abruptly. The push to keep moving, keep doing something ( _anything_ ) to keep the feeling from drowning her again much stronger than any curiosity could be.

But she still could swear she feels the tabby’s eyes on her until the door closes.


	5. chapter five: feeling foolishly overly formal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She is up early that morning, the knowledge that the moving truck will be there later in the day making her anxious to make sure everything is prepared.  
  
She opens her front door, planning to walk around her house to double check that nothing has been left outside - and is about to step down when she notices at the last moment that there is something sitting on top of her welcome mat. Petunia stumbles back until she hits the door frame, eyes wide, breathing hard.  
  
It is a dark haired child wrapped in a bundle of blankets – the edge of a letter clearly visible, like a bizarre name tag, tangled within them.  
  
But it isn’t a name tag she soon finds after she calms and gingerly picks the babe up, all the while feeling as if it will disappear like a cruel mirage. She reluctantly sets the small boy, who has yet to awaken, down upon her sofa so that she can figure out what is going on.  
  
And she recognizes the hand writing even before her eyes automatically scan to the bottom for the signature – would recognize it anywhere – for she went over the letter from Albus Dumbledore that broke her heart as a child so many times that she could recite it.  
  
This one starts in a peculiar fashion though:  
  
 _Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,_  
  
It makes Petunia pause but she supposes that his only knowledge of her would have been that Lily had – but so much has changed since she last saw her sister. _Least_ of all she feels, that she has reverted back to her maiden name.  
  
But then she reads the body of the letter and the opening doesn’t matter anymore. How could it?  
  
Because Lily and her husband are dead. _Murdered._ It is like before with the doctor where that is the only word that seems to matter. The one that seems loud and echoing in her head.  
  
So much so that she automatically glances down at the child to make sure he hasn’t woken from the noise of the awful words. But of course he hasn’t. Petunia can’t help but stare though (her eyes catching for a moment on a scar on his forehead shaped like a lightning bolt – still rather raw looking – that she assumes is from the same attack that killed his parents) because now the rest of the letter runs through her mind.   
  
He is Lily’s son and she is the only family he has left. Dumbledore almost offhandedly assures that he has taken care of the legality of it all – and her mind skitters away from how he did it. But then again, she almost doesn’t care either because she is too caught up in what this means, the sister she has lost (so soon after the death of her son and losing both of her parents in quick succession not many years ago) and the little boy now sleeping right in front of her.  
  
Maybe….maybe they can be _each other’s_ family?  
  
Perhaps all of those things bought so many months ago will be put to use, perhaps all of those dreams aren’t gone – just _different_ now. She knows she could never take her sister’s place in the boy’s life but maybe, just maybe, it isn’t all for _nothing_ anymore, perhaps she can have a family again.  
  
The thought, the foreign feeling of hope warring with the all too familiar sorrow over the news of her sister’s death, makes her blink against tears. It takes her a moment to realize that the child’s – that Harry’s ( _she knows his name, the announcement of his birth is the last letter she ever received from Lily. Born the last day of July - a month after He would have been due. She had stared at the paper blankly then, absorbing the knowledge but not really seeing it. Too much, too soon, she did not wish to deal with the myriad of feelings this brought up so…she didn’t. She just calmly filled it away with all of the other owl carried mail she had received throughout her life and went back to wandering her own house as if she had never seen it_ ) eyes are now open, looking around this new environment curiously. He sees her and she smiles at him suddenly feeling nervous, wanting so badly for this, for _something_ , to work.  
  
“I’m your Aunt Petunia,” she says feeling foolishly overly formal in front of a one year old. And he just smiles brightly in response – with those bright green familiar eyes - and reaches for her making the formality crumbles. She picks him up and holds him tightly against her. And has to swallow multiple times before she can say calmly, “Let’s see about finding you something to eat, Harry.”


	6. chapter six: on the first of november

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Her curiosity gets the best of her. Not too surprising, Minerva is quite acutely aware, as she hunches down and flicks her tail.  
  
But she does stick around yet another day. Watching. Curled as small as possible, in the hedges, in her tabby cat form - she tells herself that she is staying because she must make sure nothing harms Harry. It's the least she can do for poor Lily and James. Really, Albus, can be so unsafe at times. He never thinks these sort of things though - just dropping the child off like that on the doorstep with nothing but some blankets as protection. Any sort of harm could have befallen him before the door is opened in the morning.  
  
But then the door does open and after a bit of (quite understandable) surprise the woman brings little Harry into the house.  
  
Minerva should leave then – she knows this. But she stays. Waits.  
  
Because she is curious.  
  
There is something about this woman – Lily’s sister – that she is missing. She only put up a bit of a protest at the thought of Harry being left here (as much as she would at Dumbledore pulling this stunt with any of the children of her Gryffins’s, really). And she didn’t correct him when he spoke of the “aunt and uncle” who lived here, didn’t tell him that the only person she saw who occupied the house was a worn looking woman who never seemed to be still for more than a moment.  
  
She did not mention spying the piles of packed boxes through the window.  
  
It is still early morning when the door reopens and the woman emerges, Harry strapped in some sort of carrier to her front. He giggles when she whispers to him as she fiddles with the lock and her sharp features seem to become less harsh when she smiles down at him.  
  
Minerva follows as they go down the block, waits outside the shop on the corner until they emerge twenty minutes later with diapers and food in bags in her left hand.  
  
And in her _right hand_ an odd assortment of flowers. Curiosity piqued even more now she tries to walk casually a bit closer to see what they are, to try and figure out this puzzle of a woman.  
  
There are five – she identifies two white roses, one daisy, one lily, and one poppy. Minerva is concentrating so hard on figuring this out that it takes her a bit by surprise to realize she has not simply been following the woman back home. And then even her graceful feline footing falters a bit when they enter the graveyard.  
  
She is more hesitant then, has seen so much death in the War and now almost doesn’t want it all to come together into something of this sort. But she is too far gone and makes herself come close enough so that she can see which grave the woman stops at, hear what she whispers.  
  
The child had no name. The knowledge makes her close her eyes and curl in on herself, like a blow has been struck. _Beloved Son_ , the only title on the grave marker to go along with the date.  
  
Minerva tries to collect herself and unexpectedly thinks of Elphy. In this small moment of weakness, of wanting comfort, she wishes he were here. Perhaps it is time to consider those marriage proposals, he ends each of their meetings with, more seriously. She has admitted to herself that she is in love with Elphinstone for awhile after all – and he has never made his interest in her a mystery.  
  
Opening her eyes, Minerva wishes again she hadn’t followed the woman, wasn’t seeing her place specially picked flowers upon the ground (two white roses for her parents, a daisy for her son, a lily for her sister, a poppy for her brother –in-law). It feels much too intimate to witness her whisper and stroke the gravestone as she bounces the dead child’s cousin in a carrier upon her front.  
  
She wished she hadn’t had the burning need to put all of the pieces together.  
  
Because the _whole_ is not a lovely picture.  
  
The whole is Lily’s sister introducing cousins when one is dead and the other is an orphan. The whole is a Mother whispering goodbye as she turns to leave – as if it the action pulls at her, with pain that is absolutely heartbreaking to witness but locked away the next instant. Total focus on the infant in her arms.  
  
The whole is something she doesn’t think any of them expected. This is not the “family” Dumbledore envisioned when he dropped Harry off on the doorstep. This is not even the mean, jealous, magic-hating sister that Lily would sometimes bemoan to her Head-of House.  
  
This is a woman changed by death (death, close, much to close and personal) and that is something sadly familiar to Minerva after seeing this much War.  
  
But one thing is certain, Minerva has decided that she has seen enough. (And sees no reason to alert Dumbledore). This knowledge has only cemented her belief that she made the right decision not to interfere – despite any inner turmoil, _that_ woman would do anything for Harry. Of that Minerva is certain.  
  
With a flick of her tail she turns to leave. And doesn’t notice observant, sharp blue eyes, following her.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: (RANDOM RANT WARNING): I found out about Minerva’s husband from her Wiki article (I’m pretty sure the source isn’t book cannon and is probably one of those – Rowling was asked some questions by a reporter about characters and just started talking and that instantly became cannon - deals) and I was rather pissed at how they seemed to have this cool, mutual respect, but still rather romantic relationship and Rowling just had him randomly die from some plant poison. Stupid. So, since I am writing fanfiction anyway, Elphy (my nickname for Elphinstone Urquart because woah – that is a bizarre name even for the HP world) is gonna live.


	7. chapter seven: home again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She thought she was going back home – back to her hometown anyway – alone. But having little Harry along is no burden to her. Indeed, it is an absolute joy. He is such a good natured baby, still small enough to fit in the car seat she digs up out of one of the boxes (glad now that she had put off dropping all of His things to Oxfam until after she said goodbye a final time) and entranced by the passing world as she drives behind the moving van.

And in Cokeworth the Evans' name is a boon to her when she looks for employment (with no previous experience outside of the single job she held for four months in the secretarial pool at the firm she met Vernon at) with a little boy in tow. Here they remember her parents as good people who everyone mourned the passing of and are visibly horrified at the news of little Lily and her husband being killed.

(She does not tell them she was ever married, she does not tell them of her little boy in the box – dead before he left her body - buried deep in the Earth in Surrey. It is just easier for everyone that that knowledge stays inside her. Harry is what is important now anyway. )

These things garner sympathy, they melt the heart of her new landlord and she lets the little kid with the bright smile join Petunia in her small single bedroom apartment - even though when she had called ahead renting it she had only claimed herself as the only occupancy. And allowances are made for the orphan babe with Lily’s eyes to be cared for at the job where perhaps usually children would not be welcome.

Cokeworth in general seems more welcoming to her – much different than the grey dreary industrial town she remembers from her childhood - she only really returned to it because it is the only place where she has roots, the only real place she can look around the world and call home. And had worried a bit when she realized she was bringing Harry there. But the old mill, the warehouses that her mother always told her to avoid are all gone, bulldozed to make room for tall sprawling buildings of metal and glass. The identical brick houses that were the main characteristic of the place in her mind for so long are still there…..but they are no longer identical. In an almost aggressive push for individualism each of the brick houses are now very different, many painted in bright colors that contrast with their neighbors.

She doesn’t like it at first - frowns as she passes (her inner need for normalcy, order, at the fore). But after walking by many different times with Harry she comes to see the joy of it – comes to enjoy pointing out her favorites, or simply different colors to the young child. The air is much cleaner without the constant smoke from the mill’s chimney, the roads as well are free of debris (mostly anyway – much better than the overflowing bins she remembers), green things are starting to grow tentatively, and everything just seems brighter.


	8. chapter eight: this will work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
She is passed from “family friend” to “family friend” - little part time things that pay the bills, jobs often piling up and overlapping – leaving her exhausted, but never lasting long enough for her to set a hard schedule. The car was sold almost as soon as she gets to town (they can get to wherever they need to go here on foot, she is sure). Petunia tries to make this work, is almost certain she can – _determined_ she can. And stubbornly tries to keep the money from the sale of the house (and most of the furniture within) in the bank in case of emergency.  
  
And they might hire her out of pity but they come to value her for her work. She goes at each job with the single minded fervor and a sort of concentration that is not a new characteristic to her. Petunia has always craved order, _needed_ things a very specific way - and that is difficult in the life she has now. Her work tends to get the brunt of her slightly obsessive nature. Store rooms becoming frightfully organized, files she records never have mistakes, she answers phone with polite, precise, efficiency.   
  
As a child, she realized this was different from the way the other kids saw things, the way they learned, early on – put never told any teacher or adult. Just wanted to be normal so badly ( _didn’t want to be a freak_ ). Petunia used to have problems concentrating in class, would remember the text as soon as she read it and drift as the teacher discussed it – by the end of the year she would know with certainty the number of tiles in the ceiling, the freckles on Phil’s face, the bar codes on all of her school books, how many times Maggie kicks her feet each class. The few times she had accidently brought up knowledge, or other facts people didn’t think she should remember or notice, she was chastened as nosy (or worse to her, just different, odd).  
  
Petunia is quite honestly surprised at how useful her little “freakish” talent is proving to be at this point in her life where so little else seems to have worked out like it should. People start to seek her out every once in a while instead of the constant hunt for jobs. Usually little things – like cleaning and organizing. But it is still money.   
  
And that is all well and good for a short term plan, she supposes but this job to job life troubles her. She longs for something steady, more substantial , wants to have enough money saved up to be able to send Harry to good schools (wildly wishes he will never have to want for _anything_ in his life, but knows that that is not reasonable. Not something she can do – and Petunia has always been practical) and doesn’t think she’ll truly feel she is on firm ground until her employment goes beyond these, few days to a few weeks at a time, engagements.


	9. chapter nine: half asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
She worries about Harry often.   
  
He is quiet, too quiet really. And that is why she worries. She scrounges, feeling half asleep in the evenings, over pages of those books she had horded while her stomach had grown round (so long ago). They say it is normal – that the time it takes for children to be comfortable speaking varies.  
  
She knows it’s not a problem of comprehension, he is always quick understand what she says. Knows the difference between “Yes” and “No”. Sits on her lap, in mix-matched pajamas from second hand shops, watching with rapt attention as she reads him books from the library before bed each evening. Will pick up the different animals she asks him too in the puzzle board (and giggles each time she makes the noises).   
  
And it’s not exactly true that Harry doesn’t talk at all. The Aunt Petunia she introduced herself as was almost instantly shortened to, “Tune”. (The aforementioned “Yes” and “No” are often in frequent use as well.)  
  
But she worries. Doesn’t know if something happened that night that injured him in some way deeper than that small scar she traces each time she washes his hair. Worries that she’s just doing this all wrong.  
  
And then there are the nightmares.   
  
They have to share a bed until her rent on the one bedroom apartment is up and hopefully by then she can afford a place with a bit more space (because as Harry moves more firmly into toddlerhood “ _cozy_ ” might begin to seem a bit “ _cramped_ ”). But for now neither mind, the single bed seems like oceans of space to spread out when one is so small and Petunia has never taken up much space either.   
  
It helps her peace of mind as well to have him so close because - not every night, but often enough that it makes her watch him long after his breathing has evened out – Harry will startle awake. He calls out _almost_ incoherently, then his eyes open and dart around the room wildly.   
  
“ _Tune_ ,” he will say when he sees her, and stretch out his arms. And she will hold him to her until he is able to stop shaking, only then will those green eyes sleepily close again.   
  
Hers will stay open long after.   
  
Because that first yelled word, before he wakes, is always, “ _Ma_.”


	10. chapter ten: not perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Her parents had been trying hard. She can see that now that she is not blinded by hurt and jealousy. They were not perfect people and not perfect in how they parented Lily and her, but they had been trying so very hard. (It is easy to see that now when every day that seems to be her mantra: _Try. Just try_. It is actually amazing what she has learned she can do.)  
  
Back then she had resented how they had fawned over Lily when she was home from Hogwarts. Not understanding the reason behind the extra attention – not recognizing the desperation of parents wanting to spend as much time with their youngest during the few months of the year she was home. (Parents who honestly did not completely understand what she was learning but saw how much their daughter loved it. Wanted to support her simply because it made her happy.) Hoping to make good memories so that she wouldn’t leave from home forever, leave _them_ behind completely, for this new wondrous world she was discovering.  
  
All Petunia had seen was yet another instance of Lily got preferential treatment. Of her getting passed over, _forgotten_ \- her dullness overwhelmed by Lily’s light.  
  
It had started early. Strangers had been cruel in a very casual, unmeaning way – exclaiming over the pretty outgoing little redheaded girl and ignoring her awkward washed out looking sister, blonde and pale, who always seemed to be in between growth spurts. But Lily was so much better with people naturally, Petunia never had gotten the hang of making friends – felt too different, wanted desperately to fit in and always seemed to say the wrong thing.  
  
Lily never had a problem with that, she was always bright and vibrant. _Special_. People flocked to her. And then she started _doing things_ , and then the letter.   
  
Petunia realized after that if she was to be _anything_ in her parent’s eyes (if she was to show up) she would have to be opposite of her sister – normal; and she would have to do so completely. It was the only way - she could not compete with Lily (never could), could not even join her in that world (had been turned away). So it was best to make a clean cut of it.   
  
She could not both be normal and be close to her sister. Those things didn’t mix.   
  
Except her parents had died, one then the other. And then a few years later, quite suddenly, Lily’s world was violently brought back into contact with hers. The cut was no longer quite so clean (things had long since left their neat little boxes). And Petunia could not say no. Could not turn away this little boy on her doorstep.  
  
She needed him as much as he needed her. It was the best choice she ever made Petunia is sure, as she opens her eye to find a smiling child’s face much too close to her own.   
  
“Good Morning, Harry,” she says, sitting up abruptly, grabbing him around his middle and swinging him around in front of her - making him squeal and giggle in surprise and happiness.   
  
“Tune, Tune, Tune,” he chants bouncing up and down on the bed, grinning widely. Oddly energetic this early in the morning and it seems to spread into her. They are certainly quite a bit more silly than necessary she prepares breakfast and gets them ready for the day – animal sounds, Nursery Rhymes, and lots of giggling abound.   
  
If he ends up being “special” like Lily she would _make them_ let her in this time, _protect_ him. She wouldn’t let magic take another of her family without a fight.   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I use the book version of Petunia aesthetically who is a bit different than the movie one. Not to say that the actress in the movies wasn’t effective – she pretty much started to epitomize Petunia in my brain for a while – but I feel more comfortable going back to text for how she looks in my fic.


	11. chapter eleven: a summer day off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
  
  
Weekends off are not an automatic thing, not even something she can say she _usually_ has. But today – well, _today_ , she made sure well in advance to have free.  
  
She takes him to the park with a cooler and a worn comforter she had been able to get at a second hand shop for a few pounds (then proceeded to immediately dump in the apartment's washing machine).  
  
Harry is still young enough that some of the simplest things delight him. They spend a morning just with some bubble mix for entertainment and he runs after the translucent spheres, grinning and yelling - “More, Tune, more!” - each time he has chased after all that he can see.  
  
Worn out eventually, the blanket becomes a good place to nap (and her lap apparently a rather good pillow) after ham sandwiches and lemonade are devoured.  
  
Petunia sees him, face utterly relaxed (no nightmares) and smiles as she gazes over the rest of the park, just takes a moment to relax and feel the heat of the sun on her skin. Breathes deep, tilts her head back and feels her hair (growing out past her shoulders for the first time in years) tickling her shoulder blades. Feeling at peace in this moment - she hadn’t thought she would ever feel at peace again.  
  
Harry wakes not too long after and while he is still lethargic, in that not quite awake yet way, she sits him up in front of her and pulls the cooler over to them to bring out the last of the things inside.  
  
Harry’s eyes go wide instantly at the sight of the cupcake with chocolate icing and rainbow sprinkles, and she pulls it away from his childishly instantly grabbing hands. She fishes out two candles and a box of matches as well – and now fascinated by what she is doing he simply watches her instead.  
  
Petunia places the candles in the middle of the cupcake (not quite parallel, and she tries not to let it bother her - she knows Harry won't care) and lights them carefully while still holding on to Harry. She sings to him, knowing her voice shrill, but he watches her – eyes darting back in forth from the candle topped cupcake to her face - enraptured.  
  
When the song is done she whispers, “Blow out your candles, Harry.” And he does so with gusto that makes her giggle. She carefully removes the candles and takes off the cupcake wrapper so he can eat it.  
  
As she cleans chocolate from all over his face later Petunia thinks, perhaps she did alright for her first birthday with Harry and maybe two won’t be so terrible for them.


	12. chapter twelve: pronunciation of potatoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
  
Petunia picks up the rest of the ingredients for the stew, a recipe of her Grandmother’s that she knows by heart ( _but isn’t that the usual way for her_ ). It has been rainy lately and she has most of the things for this in her refrigerator anyway.  
  
Harry is talking a lot more now, has some basic sentences down, and is happy to parrot all of the things she shows and identifies to him (takes odd relish, that she doesn’t really understand, in lengthening PO- _TA_ -TO so that he really hits all of the syllables) before placing them in the cart. And she knows from past experience that he will remember - not _all_ , but - a good deal of them.  
  
People here recognize the two of them - Petunia even worked in the stock room part time for two weeks while one of the longtime employees had been out for surgery – and there are lots of waves and called greetings as she pushes her cart down the isles. Harry kicks his feet merrily from his perch in the seat on the front facing her.  
  
She winds her way around the fresh fruit, trying to find what is on sale – mentally figuring in her head the best deal for the amount of produce, how much the two of them will eat (so there won’t be any waste), and the always changing factor of Harry’s changing toddler taste suddenly making certain random foods anathema.   
  
She finally settles on cherries and has to snort when Harry repeats, “cherr- _IES_.”  
  
The store must be busy because it is Joan, the store manager, who is at her cashier when she checks out. They greet each other warmly, having become tentative friends in the period she worked here. And when Harry solemnly repeats his pronunciation of potatoes when they are placed on the conveyor, both women break out laughing.  
  
She opens her purse automatically and looks up for the amount, when it comes up she starts to take out money but then it jumps down substantially. “Ms. Pritchett, what…..?” she starts to ask in confusion.  
  
“Now, don’t be silly, Petunia, it’s just the employee discount,” Joan chides, then she gives the other woman a shrewd look. “You know we would have kept you on in a heartbeat if we could hire just one more person right now.” Then she sighs, “But I have to be a businesswoman sometimes and that means I’ve got to not only keep this place afloat but turn a profit.” She smiled at Harry then, who was finding the zipper of Petunia’s purse much more fascinating than two women talking, “doesn’t mean I can’t show some humanity along the way though.”  
  
Petunia looks at Harry for a moment too and just smiles, taking this kindness for what it was, far past making useless stands because of pride at this point in her life. A few extra pounds would help, not harm them anyway, and Joan was a friend (she still was not used to that).   
  
So, instead of making a fuss she just looked up, said, “Thank you, Joan,” and paid the lower price.  
  
Harry loved the cherr-IES.


	13. chapter thirteen: practiced movement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
He decides he is finished with the green and is about to choose the next color for his picture (a smiling dolphin, seaweed and lots of smaller fish) but midway through reaching for another crayon he stops, registering that the white noise of his aunt’s typing has ceased. When he looks up he sees she has only paused to shuffle a few papers and immediately after the typing starts again.  
  
Harry liked to watch his Aunt at work – she controlled her workspace utterly - long thin limbs and angles that looked like they could cut you if you tried to touch them. ( _He knew differently, he knew how soft she could be, how she would hold him, how she would read to him every night no matter how tired she was. But he liked that he was the only one who seemed to know that; it felt like a secret._ ) Eyes like looking into the cubes of ice in the tray from the freezer at home. A brain that seemed to absorb all information like a sponge. ( _He liked her eyes a lot, liked the blue, liked the way that ice would melt when they looked at him, how they would warm. It made him feel special, made him think of a clear blue sky instead. Made him happy._ )  
  
Her fingers flew across the keys, her posture rigid.  
  
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked as quiet as possible when he was too curious to stay silent but still trying not to disturb her. She was at _work_ right now after all, and even though Harry liked this boss (a very tall man with very little hair who had given him the coloring book) he knew the rules, knew not to make much noise while his aunt was _working_.  
  
 _(And they would go for a walk, to get out of the cramped room, during lunch break - and there was always plenty of playtime at home. He would ask if they could build pillow forts today, Tune's pillow forts never toppled over - unless you fell into them on purpose of course.)_  
  
She smiled, not looking over, not stopping the flow of her fingers. But there was a change, a loosening of the shoulders a tilt of the head in his direction in acknowledgement that made her plait of carefully braided blonde hair shift as well.  
  
“Data entry today, Harry-dear,” she murmured just as quietly.  
  
“What’s that, Tune?” he asked.  
  
She smiled at his inquisitiveness and answered promptly. “You see those papers there,” she gestured with her head to the pile of forms to her right. “I’m putting the things people wrote on them into the computer,” she explained in simple terms for the toddler. “Understand, Harry?” she asked as she flipped her current paper over and moved onto the next in a practiced movement.   
  
He watched her for a while longer before giving a serious nod. “Yes, Tune,” he said. And went back to his coloring, picking the bulky orange children's crayon and merrily making the dolphin an unnatural shade (as well as much of it's underwater surroundings that didn't escape the rather uncoordinated scribble).  
  
Petunia just shook her head slightly, grinning down at her keyboard and kept working.


	14. chapter fourteen: water and air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
  
  
They stay in the one bedroom apartment for longer than Petunia initially had planned (the six month lease – all that the landlord would agree to over the phone at the time – lengthened to a year). And, in the end it is her decision to stay longer in this place, out of sheer practicality - it gives her time to save a bit, a buffer, a solid knowledge that they will be able to make their payments when they move into a two bedroom. That is surely worth being just a little cramped for a while longer.   
  
When it finally is time to move she is slightly worried that Harry will not like it, will be stressed by the process (even if the new place is only a level up and down the hall from their old). But she really should have known better – Petunia has no experience with other children’s moods but Harry is amazingly resilient.  
  
He is very excited about packing their belongings up (puts disparate things – her hair brush, two boxes of uncooked spaghetti, loose crayons, and his stuffed animal shark - in boxes that she often has to take back out again with an amused shake of her head), about the prospect of getting his own bed (another reason she wanted to wait until she had a bit of spare cash, mattresses were one of those things you just _shouldn’t_ buy second hand), and that there is another child his age on their new floor as well (their old floor, since it consisted of one-bedroom apartments, had been all adults. A wonderful thing now that she has more volunteers than are really needed to help move her bed, the sofa and a heavy chest of drawers – a heirloom from her mother, passed down for generations to the eldest daughter – but it probably would have eventually become lonely for Harry).  
  
She keeps an ear open, the weeks surrounding her move, for sales - and is rewarded for her patience when she ends ups getting that needed mattress (with basic frame and bed-spring) from the closest mall, two days after they moved in (just when she had been starting to bite her lip in worry every time she looked at that empty space in the second room where Harry’s bed should be. Almost resigning herself to dipping into the money from the sale of the house that she had been keeping untouched), for much cheaper than she had feared.  
  
Thinking the same sale that had slashed the price on that purchase, might be inclined to cover bedding as well she had taken Harry over to a different section of the store. A smile curling over her face when she saw the “Half Price!” signs placed everywhere.  
  
Going over to the wall and finding the right size, Petunia started through the process of trying to get a toddler to make a decision – when Harry was older she wanted to feel she gave him a choice in these sort of things, but at times it could be frustrating.  
  
Finally they settled on a soft light blue comforter with navy and green wavy lines (Harry had a bit of an underwater fascination lately). And she picked up the bulky bundle – but not before bopping him gently on the top of the head with it making him squeal and giggle.  
  
In comparison, finding sheets was very easy. His eyes lit up and he started bouncing on his toes, pointing. She followed his finger and set down the comforter for a moment to reach the sheet set - navy blue with birds on it – all sorts – all in flight.   
  
She sighed even as she smiled: _Water and air? At least those will be nice dreams, perhaps._  
  
And put the set back ignoring Harry’s sound of disappointment and confusion as she hunted for one that didn’t say “Queen” - and made her own sound of triumph in the back of her throat when she pulled “Single” from the very back, wouldn’t do if it didn’t fit his new bed after all.  
  
Harry grinned widely as she deposited it in his arms, looking down at the soaring birds and then at her again once she got a grip on the edge of the plastic of the comforter’s bag ( _this would be awkward on the bus ride back_ ) and reached for his hand.   
  
He’d do fine at the new apartment she thought as the familiar small hand grasped hers. They both would.


	15. chapter fifteen: first day jitters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
The large building of steel of glass (which she had learned later was an electronics company) that now sat where the old mill once resided had been one of the places she had hit when she was first looking around Cokeworth for employment. At the time the sharply dressed man in human resources, who had off handedly gave his name as Jonathon McKinley when she handed him her application, (after seeing she wasn’t going to break down at being declined) had calmly and concisely answered her questions about company benefits and the requirements for an entry level position.  
  
Now that Harry was old enough for preschool she submitted her application again. Petunia knew her work history was much fuller now, her character references were business people well respected in the town. And even if she simply got a job working as a secretary it would be a nine to five job ( _which worried her but Nana Baker – the grandmother who took care of the little girl Harry’s age two doors down from theirs - had assured her multiple times that it would be no trouble to look after an extra little one for a few hours, had scolded her for even thinking she mightn’t, for letting that be a consideration in this_ ) with steady pay – subject to raise and with the possibility of promotion.   
  
Less than a week after she applied, she had received a call asking her to come in for an interview. The very same well dressed man from before had greeted her when she walked in his office – eyes actually lighting up with faint recognition at the sight of her. And he seemed mildly surprised that she remembered his name as well (there was nothing on his door or desk that she could have used as a reminder) and she tried not to fiddle self-consciously with the edge of her skirt at this man paying attention to her little oddity, tried not to stick out _more_. Gladly, he moved on quickly.   
  
Petunia supposed she did well in the interview – adequately anyway, for despite her lack of social grace she is now employed, _steadily_ employed. A secretary in an upstart electronics firm.  
  
( _She had taken both Harry and Robyn - the little girl - out for ice cream to celebrate when she got home. And even surprised Nana Baker by bringing some home for her as well as a preemptive thank you._ )  
  
Unease curls in her stomach as she stands in front of the imposing building now though. Feeling very young, very immature, she tries to gather her nerve and take the last few steps and open the door. Not just keep fiddling with clothes that she knows look fine. ( _And definitely count the number of panes of glass that make up this side of the building._ )  
  
 _Her first day at work_ , the thought is sardonic in her head. She has been working pretty much constantly since she entered Cokeworth city limits. Needing the money, needing to make _any sort_ of living for Harry and herself. There had been no fear then – it was just something she _had to_ do and she did it.   
  
For Harry.  
  
But now, well now, she honestly is nervous. This job isn’t like the others – she will be here for a long while ( _hopefully_ ) and she will need to get along with these people. And Petunia knows that has never been her strong suit.  
  
The front door opens, the shiny glass catching the sun as it moves, the person who walks out looks at her oddly as he walks by but doesn’t say anything as he makes his way over to the parking lot.  
  
It is enough to shake her out of her thoughts though. She is being silly anyway, it’s not as if she is going to turn tail and run. The very notion is ridiculous to her - after looking so long for steady employment why would she flee from it?  
  
 _Why would you hesitate?_ That earlier sardonic tone is back. But it’s right as well, her reasonings are the same as they’ve ever been. This is still just a job (still for Harry). And pulling back her shoulders Petunia takes the last few steps and opens the door.


	16. chapter sixteen: all hallows eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
She wants to get a copy of the photo Nana Baker took of mini ninja and little shark hugging, broad excited grins across their faces.  
  
And while the grey hoodie, faded black pants, and homemade fin (fabric cut from old grey sweatpants that had had the knees worn out, carefully shaped over a folded cardboard triangle and attached to the back of his shirt with velcro – _simple perhaps, but Petunia had been bizarrely proud of herself for the creation_ ) doesn't make for the most convincing of costumes, Harry’s enthusiasm more than makes up for the fact.   
  
They meet up with their partners for tonight at the apartment a few doors down where Robyn, the exuberant girl that Harry plays with is dressed all in black with a bit of fabric tied around her forehead. She does made up karate moves until she almost upsets a lamp and her Nana scolds her, the poor mini ninja banned from her fake fighting techniques for the rest of the evening.  
  
The most adorable part perhaps is the inclusion of Harry’s stuffed animal shark named Lots ( _short for Lots of Teeth, naturally_ ). As they went around the different floors of the apartment building the first half of the night, Harry had the arm not responsible for holding his bag of candy looped around him and when asked by the bemused people who opened the door would say that the toy was his sidekick ( _something she assumes he picked up from school and other kids who's parents got them into superheroes early or something_ ).  
  
But the thing that gives Nana Baker and her problems holding composure as they take turns solemnly knocking for their kids is halfway through the night the children devise a very simple plan they enact at every door. The grown up knocks, shark-Harry standing there says trick or treat, and then - just as he says it - ninja-Robyn, who has been hiding behind him, jumps out holding Lots and roaring.  
  
( _The two guardians also don’t tell their children that sharks don’t roar._ )   
  
She would not have allowed Harry to do this (and feels Nana Baker is the same) if there was any real chance that the people who answer the doors were surprised. The hallway is clearly lit and Harry and Robyn are about the same size – she really is not very well hidden, crouched down and giggling, behind him at any time.  
  
So they let the kids have their fun and many people pretend to be frightened by the shark sidekick coming at them from the ninja’s sneak attack (much to Harry and Robyn’s obvious delight.)  
  
Petunia wouldn’t have felt right taking Harry around trick or treating that first year they were here – and he was so young it wasn’t really an issue either. But this year he had _asked_ …and she really couldn’t say no. And she knows this is the right choice ( _what Lily and James would have wanted – because it is what any parent would want_ ) when she sees how happy he is.  
  
Yes, this is a much better way to remember them. Seeing him happy.  
  
Petunia finds herself having to hold her wrist behind her back to force herself not to check the time though. Not to look every few minutes and wonder: _Is this when it happened? It this when they died?_  
  
Because she knows it was today. But _when? How? Why?_ (The letter left with Harry had claimed someone named Voldemort as the murderer - but that means nothing to her.) These things bother her, the not knowing. She _should_ know. Doesn’t she have a right to know?   
  
Harry turns around holding up some candy to her proudly and she smiles wanly running her hands through his hair, her eyes catch on that scar for a moment - _that_ , her mind thinks, _when did that happen? How was her Harry hurt that day?_ Surely she should have been told _that_ at least.  
  
She lets him have fun, tries to revel voraciously in his joy - for tomorrow will not be like this. Tomorrow will be a quieter affair. The tradition started that initial November first was continued - and last year they visited her parents' graves (side by side) here in Cokeworth to remember all of their dead. _All Souls Day_ – she hadn’t chosen the date on purpose that first year but the bits of religion still within her (or at least the knowledge of it) from those times back when her Mother would usher them all to Mass on random Sundays, trying to avoid bringing the wrath of (their very Catholic) Grandma upon them, make it feel fitting.   
  
She had sat on the cold ground in front of the gravestones and he had sat upon her lap; she wrapped her coat around an already bundled up Harry for double protection from the autumn chill and he had cuddled close while she whispered stories to him - stories of her childhood, stories of his mother and grandparents. ( _Tried to tell him what she knew of James Potter - but that is not much. And, that year at least, it didn't much matter either since he had fallen asleep quickly, lulled by her voice, her heartbeat, and the cocoon of her coat._ )  
  
 _Where were Lily and James buried?_ she wonders not for the first time _Was there a funeral?_  
  
It's these sorts of questions that will keep her up late tonight – long after the little shark and mini ninja have reveled in their candy stashes and crashed on the couch (a shark fin and ninja head band carefully removed from sleeping bodies).   
  
It’s these sort of thoughts that needle at her throughout the year, but refuse to leave her alone every all hallows eve.


	17. chapter seventeen: non traditional stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
“You done yet, Harry?” Robyn leaned over onto his desk to whisper (although her whispering voice was rather loud).  
  
He shook his head, not looking up, biting his lip in concentration, as he cut the paper on the dotted line with his safety scissors.   
  
She sighed flopping back down in her chair and pushing bead bedecked braids (red and pink right now) over her shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye noticed her absentmindedly start to spinning her scissors on the desk with one finger.   
  
Before he could warn her their teacher’s calm voice came across the room. “ _Robyn_ ,” was all he said, but the tone made it clear that she knew what she was doing wrong and this was not the first time she had been warned.  
  
“Sorry,” she said, immediately stopping the tools rotation. Then she picked it up and put it in her pencil box with exaggerated care.  
  
Mr. Vowell sighed tiredly but said nothing more, going back to mediating an argument between two other kids over a broken blue crayon that looked ready to reach the crying stage.  
  
By the time that was done Harry had finished cutting out the shape and showed Robyn proudly when she turned back to him. Robyn picked up hers so he could finally see (as she had wanted him too earlier).   
  
They were making their nametags that day before the evening Parent-Teacher conferences. Each desk would have a star with the child’s name but they had been welcome to color and design the interior of the star however they wished. Robyn had foregone the classical yellow and colored it a vibrant orange, each point of her star (and in the middle of the “o” of her name) was crowned with white and yellow flowers. _Daisies_ , Harry remembered, they were one of his aunt's favorites (despite her name).  
  
“I like it,” Harry told her genuinely and she grinned widely at the compliment.  
  
“Yours too, Harry. It’s really _really_ cool,” she said and he looked down at his own nametag critically. He had attempted to draw lots of smaller stars inside the larger main one. And had tried to limit himself to using only the colors on the rainbow chart that was on the classroom wall: ROY G BIV.   
  
“Is your aunt coming tonight?” Robyn asked suddenly.  
  
“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly, “Tune doesn’t get night shifts anymore. Will Nana Baker be here?”  
  
“She’s tryin’ to get off,” Robyn said with a frown. Harry got along well with Robyn – thought she might be his best friend. They lived in the same building and sat beside each other on the school bus and at school. She was like him, with no Mom and Dad – and lived with her grandmother instead. Sometimes he would even get to sleep over at Robyn’s place and Nana Baker would make sticky buns in the morning – when they stayed over his, Tune would make blueberry muffins.  
  
“If she can’t, you can just come in with me and Tune tonight," he shrugged. "I'm sure Mr. Vowel won't mind if we're family for you. We've been family _loads_ of times,” he said looking back up at her with an easy grin thinking of the way most afternoons now when Tune got home from work, they just ended up staying ( _just a bit longer_ ) at Nana Baker's place for dinner. And after that, his aunt would _always_ insist on doing dishes before they headed home (although Nana always said she got more than fair trade with Tune taking the two of them the full days on the weekends - well mostly, Robyn had church in the morning on Sundays.)  
  
Spontaneously he reached out a hand to her and automatically their fingers intertwined and they swung their arms back and forth between the desks a few times before breaking apart, giggling quietly. Harry didn’t want her to get in trouble again after all.   
  
Robyn though grinned widely at him again. “Alright. I _have_ to come anyway; we have the _best_ stars," she admired her own again before continuing in that whispered tone that wasn't at all quiet. "They're _way_ better than Julie’s. She just colored hers’ _yellow._ "  
  
So, he wasn’t really surprised when he heard the faintly exasperated, “ _Robyn_ ….” again and just tried not to giggle.  
  
  
  
 **ANNOUNCEMENT/ A/N:** I'm on vacation for a week starting Monday, 6/3/13. I know from experience that the place I'm going has very sporadic internet access so I'm not sure if/when I will be able to post while I am away. If all else fails, regular, daily posting will continue on 6/11.


	18. chapter eighteen: precarious piles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
“Tune!” Harry says quickly. “Stop! You’re about to step in water!”  
  
  
She peers around the pile of clothing in her arms, still warm from dryer, to see Harry standing atop their flipped over laundry basket in the middle of the cool concrete of the apartment’s basement laundry room. ( _The, in actuality, rather dry - not at all water filled - laundry room._ ) Knowing his previous make believe, she quickly puts it together. “And you are on an island dear?” she asks him calmly, barely a question really.  
  
  
He nods quickly and she can’t help but smile a bit. “Could the island perhaps be turned into a boat?” she asks in a reasonable tone. And after a moment of consideration, Harry smiles back at her and gives another rapid nod. And he is very quick about jumping off, flipping the basket over and climbing in as well. ( _Doesn’t want to drown after all_ she supposes.)  
  
  
She starts to walk again but he again stops her with the cry of, “Tune, the water!  
  
  
So, she pauses and considers how to solve this little predicament. “Is it shallow enough that I can wade through, Harry-dear? Or should I hold my breath?” she asks sensibly.  
  
  
And Harry gives it due thought before he says conclusively, “Hold your breath.”  
  
  
She gives him a serious nod before dramatically holding her breath and walking over to him with her armload. (He giggles at her puffed out cheeks – just as she intended.)  
  
  
When she reaches the side of the boat/basket and is about to drop the things in her grasps (a bit on top of him – she knows that will make him laugh as well) he stops her with a question.  
  
  
“Can you play with me?” he asks and there is a certain pleading tone in his voice that she often finds it hard to guard against, to say no to.  
  
  
And she can’t now. Which is why the rectangular plastic laundry basket finds itself with the odd cargo of two human beings. And it is times like these that she is grateful for her skinny frame and lanky limbs – her knees might stick up awkwardly but it is a surprisingly easy fit for just the two of them and a bit of clean wash.  
  
  
As Harry excitedly tells her about their pirate ship she smiles indulgently, adding details to this spontaneous new make believe when it seems appropriate and folding towels – stacking them in precarious piles on her knees.  
  
  
And there is never a moment of thought to what someone might _think_ until the door to the laundry room behind her opens and Harry just waves happily to the new person, never stopping his chatter. Without getting up, Petunia tilts her head back to see Mr. Brooks – the man who was their neighbor on their old floor, back when they lived in the one bedroom apartment – his own dirty laundry held at his left hip and his right hand over his mouth to politely cover the fact that he is trying valiantly not to laugh.  
  
  
To this she just raises and eyebrow imperiously, tilts her head back down and explains to Harry the need of proper sanitation on their pirate ship.


	19. chapter nineteen: uneasy approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
  
Harry is smiling as he throws the trash leftover from his brown bag lunch in the bin. It’s been fun being away from the school today – and although Tune couldn’t get time off for this field trip – the parent in charge of their group is very nice. Mr. Jacobson – Daniel’s father, who had been just strict enough to keep them from wandering but snorted with laughter (that he had quickly tried to disguise as a cough when the other parents turned to look at him) at Harry and Robyn's inaudible impression of their monotonous tour guide.  
  
  
After lunch they will all get on the bus and return, so the little groups were taking their time to finish (the teachers and parents were certainly not in a hurry to return either). And it’s about half a dozen children that are laughing and chattering together as they wander over to throw away their trash. He is not expecting, in that moment, for a bizarrely dressed man (wearing robes, of all things, and Harry would assume it was something for the museum but they don’t quite seem to fit with the style) with excited eyes and a rapturously wide smile to come straight towards him.  
  
  
“Mr. Potter, it _is_ you. I have to tell you it is a _honor_. A _great honor_ ,” he babbles. And Harry is so shocked that the man is able to approach and take his hand, shaking it.  
  
  
The other kids mill around uncertain of what to do. They know the rules they have been told about talking to strangers and can see that Harry looks uneasy – but that _is_ an adult and they don’t know who he is, if he is someone they are supposed to respect or listen to. There had been some recreationist in the museum today and they had looked pretty funny too after all.  
  
  
Robyn though, is not frozen by such things (especially when it comes to her best friend), and seeing how uncomfortable he is, is quick to defend him. “Hey, back off. Or we’re going to tell a teacher,” she threatens and her eye flick in Sydney’s direction make that a suggestion that the other girl, out of the weird man’s line of sight, quickly run’s off to do.  
  
  
And he is much less happy when he turns to her. The smile turning down and eyes crinkling in irritation, “Girl, do you know who this is….” he starts.  
  
  
But it has served her purpose. In his distraction Harry pulled away and is quickly pushed behind others until he is in the middle of a group of kids – who now, sure that something is wrong, automatically group around him. Shielding him from the weird man.  
  
  
It also gives time for Sydney, who Robyn had chosen because she was the fastest, to return with adults (who had not been very far away anyway - only sitting over at the picnic tables just around the corner). And they do _not_ look happy.  
  
  
“Is there a reason you’re bothering my students?” Ms. Cheryl asks when she gets within speaking distance, and Harry has never thought she would seem threatening but striding towards them – flanked by Mr. Jacobson and Sydney’s mom (who Harry knows is a police woman) – staring down the man, she is distinctly intimidating.  
  
  
And the robed man who approached him can clearly feel it as well. His hand seems to finger something at his wrist as he talks and Sydney’s mom falls into a loose stance. “I just wanted to tell Mr. Potter - ,” he states uneasily.  
  
  
But his teacher cuts him off, turning to Harry, “Do you know this man, Mr. Potter?” she asks.  
  
  
“No, Ms. Cheryl,” he says promptly, shaking his head quickly, holding his arms tight around his middle. Robyn immediately pushes through the other kids until she is beside him and loops an arm around his shoulder (she has always been a bit taller than him), he slides around her waist automatically. ( _He still can't help but wish badly that Tune were here._ )  
  
  
Ms. Cheryl's eyes coldly go back to the man uncomfortably shifting his weight. “Then – _please_ tell me – why did you approach an _underage child_ , without his guardian present. _Let alone_ speak with him?” her voice is hard, the fact that she assumes the worst about this person obvious.  
  
  
Looking very wide-eyed now, he turns from one person to the other – as if looking for a sympathetic face – staring at Harry the longest, making him look down at his shoes. Then after a prolonged moment he simply turns and runs, when the adults give chase it is to no good, they swear that he turned down a dead end corner and disappeared.   
  
  
It is something that is talked about at school for a while (amongst both children and adults). That weirdo that bothered Harry on the field trip. But the incident stays with him longer because he doesn't know _why_ it happened. How that man knew his name or why he acted so oddly towards him. It is something that makes him uneasy whenever he thinks about it years after.


	20. chapter twenty: bulky frames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
  
He frowns watching his reflection do the same in the mirror. The black bulky frames feel weird on his face, heavy, and seem to almost swallow his eyes.  
  
  
Harry takes them off and carefully places them back on the wall of all the other sample child frames the eye doctor has available.  
  
  
Teachers had noticed him squinting at the board and had brought it up to Tune. The next time he had a check up at the doctor's office ( _he liked it there - Dr. Mallory was a lady older than his aunt who always wore her silvery hair down, held out of her face with twin bobby pins that were different every time he came. She was very nice, smiled a lot, and answered his many questions with utter seriousness_ ) he was asked to read letters from a chart across the room - and when he got to a row where he couldn't, they were sent off to the eye doctor.  
  
  
 _No, not eye doctor, optometrist. That's right,_ he remembered the word. He liked big words like that, how they looked on a page and how they sounded out loud.   
  
  
He bites his lip and looks across the others glasses again - something shiny catches his eye and he reaches for the gold toned frames next. Tilting his head back and forth once they are on his face, liking the simplicity and grinning at the way light catches on them.  
  
  
“Are those the ones you want, Harry?” he sees his aunt behind him in the mirror.  
  
  
“They’re not too much?” he asks anxiously, turning around to face her.  
  
  
She looks gently down at him but neither contradicts him or admonishes him for making such a suggestion (he knows most kids are not, but the price of things is something that Harry has been acutely aware of his whole life. One of his first solid memories is of waking up late at night and wandering into the kitchen to find his aunt frowning over her neatly laid out budget for the month).   
  
  
Instead she checks the tag on the side and smiles gently. “We’ll be fine Harry, it's really not a lot after you factor in the voucher. And I set aside more than this for today.”  
  
  
He spontaneously reaches out and hugs her. “Thank you, Tune,” is muffled into her sweater.  
  
  
But she hears him and he feels her fingers card through his hair as she whispers, “Of course, Harry. You silly goose - you know I'd get you anything you needed. I love you.”


	21. chapter twenty-one: such a small thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
The first time it happens, it is such a small thing.  
  
  
They are at Nana Baker ( _“go ahead and call me Nana too, Petunia – I’m old enough to be your grandmother as well, after all”_ ) and Robyn’s church’s Eater Potluck. Harry is seven and she can tell he feels so very grown up ( _dressed up for today in a button up t-shirt and tie_ ) being allowed back in the kitchens to help out.  
  
  
The others have already gone outside with most of the food and Harry is in front of her walking very slow and careful, carrying a pitcher of lemonade. And he seems to be doing fine, would have done fine, if whoever had spilled ice earlier had cleaned it up – but now it is a puddle on the floor, a puddle neither of them see until it is too late.  
  
  
Petunia winces, her hands tightening on the vegetable be-laden tray she is carrying as she watches him slip, right himself but loose his grip on the glassware. As it falls she is already making plans in her head. Reassuring Harry, making sure he is alright, clean up, getting more drink ready, a new shirt for him to wear until that one dries ( _some of the other boys have up to three layers on, she bets at least one of them won’t mind being rid one_ ).  
  
  
But, then...then there is no need.  
  
  
Because the pitcher stops mid fall, slows in its decent, and then sits upon the floor gently. Not a drop of lemonade spilled.  
  
  
Harry has had his eyes closed the entire time behind his glasses - face scrunched up, almost comically, wincing in preparation for the spectacular accident and now opens his eyes, amazed and delighted to find no mess at all. He turns to smile at his aunt but his grin slips a bit at her expression.  
  
  
“Tune?” he asks. At her lack of immediately response, he walks over (leaving the lemonade sitting where it pleases) and tugs at her shirt. “Tune, what’s wrong? It’s alright Tune; see,” he points back, “nothing broke.”  
  
  
She looks down at him – into those bright green eyes that are now so much more familiar to her for just being _Harry’s_ than any resemblance to her sister. But in this moment she thinks of Lily sharply. _Very sharply._  
  
  
“No, Harry - nothing broke,” she whispers, her throat feeling clogged. “You’re right. _Everything_ is alright,” she says and Petunia takes a deep, settling, breath, steadying herself ( _pushing through the knowledge, in this moment - the thoughts that fall one after the other like dominoes - of what she knows this means. What it will change for both of their futures._ ).   
  
  
Instead she smiles at him reassuringly, calming his worries, and says lightly, “Now pick that pitcher back up and let’s get this stuff outside; everyone is waiting and my arms are getting tired.”


	22. chapter twenty-two: little nuances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
And then, after that, after she is _certain_ that he has his parent’s gift - Petunia must tell him all she knows.  
  
About… _magic_.  
  
She wouldn’t ever dare say anything a moment before. She knows the feeling keenly of being told all about a world - there just out of your reach, of knowing someone in your family was a part of something you would _always_ be excluded from. She would never put Harry through that when he was so happy here in Cokeworth. Hogwarts would never again pass her lips, would remain an uneasy memory, if she wasn’t sure a letter would come when he was eleven.  
  
But it _will_ , she knows that. And it’s just not practical to keep her head in the sand about it (no matter how much a small part of her _desperately_ wishes too. Wants to keep her simple, happy, life here without magic intruding. It will – and she can’t fight that, she can feel it in her bones, with a deadly sort of certainty. It _will_. Because Harry _is_ magic. Like Lily was. And this time she won’t run away from it, won’t make the same mistakes and lose her family again.)  
  
And there are so many things to tell him now that there almost doesn’t seem to be enough time. Little things she wants him to be prepared for, some that seem silly – like writing with a quill. She remembers Lily’s letters home to their mother her first year that she had secretly snuck away in her parent’s room and read – curiosity, jealousy (and never admitted to worry for her little sister, who had always been there for her to at least keep an eye on, now so far away from her suddenly) warring with each other as her eyes devoured the words in that familiar handwriting. There had been teasing at that school for so many things that were second nature to people who grew up in the magical world and the Muggle ( _normal_ ) born students were just supposed to somehow know.   
  
She goes about it slowly with him though. Petunia feels she _has_ to – because although she knows now that Harry is special like Lily was, he has been raised by her. Thinks too much like her. And Petunia remembers how badly she reacted (wishes some nights as she stares at the ceiling that certain moments, certain conversations could have gone differently – _and she remembers so many, too many, of them – her mistakes – crystal clearly_. But that is all the past and she will drive herself crazy if she festers there, and that will do Harry no good).  
  
So she introduces it gently – his usual nighttime bedtime tales are usurped by her telling him stories. He is smart, quick to catch little nuances, and while at first is simply interested because of this change in routine he soon picks up on the little details, like the fact that the two little girls in the story have red and blonde hair. (And she does not paint herself all together kindly in the telling – but, then again, she has never hidden it from him that Lily and she were estranged for years before he came to her.) And although she doesn’t use names – instead falling easily into the broad fairy tale cadence that is familiar after reading so many such books aloud – details from her childhood are woven in. This time though, unlike the previous times she has told him about his parents, she doesn’t leave out the magic.   
  
It is spread over many nights - and snuggled up beside her on his bed, one arm looped around his stuffed shark Lots, he listens carefully, _very_ carefully. And when they come to the end, his eyes are wide and he goes very still - he even stops breathing for a moment, when she tells him how the magical woman with fiery hair and her magical husband were killed and their beloved little baby boy was sent to the blonde sister.   
  
His air leaves him in a rush when she calmly continues; telling how the dark haired babe with the lightning bolt scar on his forehead was left on the doorstep the day the blonde sister was to take a homeward voyage. How they created a home together there and loved each other very much.   
  
But as that boy grew he began to claim his parent’s gifts, began to become magical too.   
  
Harry looks at her sharply then as if asking her to confirm all of this – because he knows some of these parts for sure. Petunia knows that he has suspected a great deal of the rest, but _his_ part, she has never beat around the bush about. She just waits though, lets him work through all of this in his head (like she knows she would want to do) – lets him ask the question.  
  
“Is it true?” he finally inquires, his entire face scrunched up in tension, he holds Lots tighter unconsciously, his other hand fisted in her shirt. “Is it real? Were my parents magical? Am I magical?”  
  
Her smile might be a tad bittersweet but her eyes are calm when she looks down at him; gently stroking his hair, she simply says, “Yes, Harry.”


	23. chapter twenty-three: worth passing on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
Sometimes there are days, days that Petunia can only refer to as _what if_ days. She longs for them to end as soon as they begin. Because as soon as they start, she can’t get her brain to stop.  
  
She’ll set down a bowl for Harry’s cereal in the morning and wonder: _what if she put down two bowls?_ Not just randomly of course – _but what if there was reason to, if she never lost her little boy and there was a blonde haired child sitting in that seat right beside Harry?_  
  
She sometimes wonders if she would still be with Vernon if the baby had gone to term, it they would have stayed in that house in Surrey. Or if perhaps the marriage between them was always doomed and she was always going to end up here in Cokeworth someday – with either one baby or two.   
  
But thoughts of her ex-husband are fleeting; she spent so little time as Mrs. Dursley that it is hard really to imagine a life with him. ( _More than the precious few months the baby had been growing inside of her of course, but she has always wanted a family of her own - was imagining that little life long before she met Vernon - and so it is terribly easy to continue to think about it long after he is gone._ ) Most what ifs are here in this apartment or out around town: _another little boy playing on the swings with Harry and Robyn in the park while she watches them on Saturday. Another smiling face that lights up when she comes home from work._  
  
Thoughts of her little one living play out in full though – they always do (although she wishes they didn’t). And it always makes her wonder (especially lately): _would he have had magic?_ Or would he have simply been left behind when Harry goes off to Hogwarts. (A heart wrenching replay of an earlier time, cast with male players this time.)   
  
The thought always makes her bite her lip. Because while she can never say which outcome in life would have been _best_ – and would always wish that things could be different, that Lily, James, and her little boy never died – the hand she has been dealt is _not_ a bad one. And any adjustments, any _what ifs_ , would change it drastically.  
  
(This always makes her feel immensely, _immensely_ guilty – but somewhere deep down she knows it is true as well.)  
  
The idea of Hogwarts troubles her for a more solid, much more _present_ , reason though; it makes her worry for _Robyn_. What they will tell Nana Baker and the rambunctious little girl once Harry gets his letter and must leave for the boarding school. Because Petunia wants no unnecessary jealousy or strife between the two. Harry has come to love Robyn as the sister he never had (the sibling she couldn’t give him) and Petunia doesn’t want to see Lily and hers’ relationship play out before her eyes once again.   
  
And this time it has the possibility to become even _worse_ , with secrecy making so much of his life forced into lies to get around talking about magic. _No_ , Petunia won’t stand for it. By the time Harry gets his letter and supplies she’ll have it worked out, she’ll have a plan.   
  
Siblings (through blood or choosing – it doesn’t really matter) shouldn’t let magic have the power to separate them, to make them stop being friends. She knows that now and it is a lesson (far too hard won by her) worth passing on.


	24. chapter twenty-four: so little light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
He wakes up shaking.  
  
  
Disoriented he blinks into the blurry, dark of his room – the moment he has his bearings, Harry rolls onto his stomach and reaches for his glasses on the side table. Shoving them on his face, almost roughly, he climbs off his bed, knocking Lots onto the floor in the process, and stumbles to the bedroom door.   
  
  
He reaches desperately and bites his lip hard to hold back a whimper of sound when his still shaking limbs make him fumble with the doorknob. The darkness is starting to feel like an actual thing - a weight, pressing in on him, and it takes a lot of effort not to look around – knowing how dangerous and odd normal objects will look when there is so little light (and he is already so scared). Harry usually has no problem with this – has never been a kid scared of the dark – but every time he has a nightmare everything seems so….  
  
  
A breath of relief leaves him when the cool metal finally twists beneath his hands and he is able to push the door open. There is a bit of glow in the hall – a nightlight so neither of them trip if they have to use the loo in the middle of the night – and he has great appreciation for it now. The low light, makes it much easier for him to make his way the short distance to the other bedroom door - he has actually stopped shaking by the time he turns Tune’s doorknob.  
  
  
She wakes at the sound of her door opening (she always does). And the familiar sight of her blinking sleep quickly from her eyes, blonde hair a bit mussed from the pillow - is enough to make nearly all the rest of his panic seep away. ( _Nearly._ )  
  
  
“Another nightmare?” she asks him holding up the edge of her comforter and he quickly climbs atop the bed and snuggles close. With practiced ease she hooks his glasses off his face again and sets them on her own side table.   
  
  
“Yes, Tune,” he says, feeling her arms go around him, feeling warmth seep back into him – feeling _safe._  
  
  
“The same?” she questions, a quiet, close sound. And he doesn’t need light to see, because he can clearly picture the worried frown pulling across her face.   
  
  
“Yes, Tune,” he says again and his voice waivers just a bit. She pulls him even closer somehow and he burrows against her gladly. No more words need to be exchanged between them - she does not need to ask anything else, does not need him to recount any of it. He has always had the same nightmare for as long as he can remember after all – and there isn’t much there for him to tell.  
  
  
( _Green light and high pitched laughter._ )  
  
  
But there _must_ be more to it, something that he is missing, that they are both missing (more than just the added aspect of magic which he now knows to be a real thing – something he has, something his parents had - but still feels like such a faraway idea most of the time for a _part_ of him. Just doesn't seem real and solid, like his arm or leg, something he can point to and say _'that part of me is magic'_. And he isn't sure he would believe it if Tune hadn't told him it was true), because the feeling that swamp him each time leaves him shaking – in such utterly overwhelming fear.   
  
  
It is only here, with his Tune, ( _the sound of her heartbeat, the feeling her worn flannel nightshirt, even her smell that is utterly familiar to him_ ) where everything seems to settle. The tightness in his chest loosens and he starts to fall asleep again, exhausted now that his panic is gone.  
  
  
Because he knows deep down that he is safe here with her thin, strong arms around him and her blue eyes watching him gently, frowning out warningly into the darkness. His Tune won’t let anything bad happen to him, he has an utter, complete, surety in this fact.


	25. chapter twenty-five: dense paperwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
“Hey, Petunia,” she hears yelled across the entire floor (making some of the newer employees jump – one poor nervous young man somehow knocking over both a container of pens and a folder full of documents that he scrambles after - and the others just shake their heads) long before he reaches her. She doesn’t even flinch at the volume, hasn’t since the third day after she was moved up to this floor, and by the time the messy haired, middle aged man actually gets to her desk, Petunia has set her papers neatly down. She is waiting calmly, hands interlaced in front of her, perfectly poised.  
  
  
Looking at how she is seated and her droll expression, his grin grows to almost manic levels.   
  
  
“You yelled, Mr. Peterson?” she asks, not a hint of amusement escaping her.  
  
  
He rocks back on his heels at the question. “Did I?” he seems to ask himself, frowning - and she actually wonders for a moment if in the space of time it took to walk over to her he forgot why he made the journey. Petunia almost starts to suggest he call from his office next time (she knows he won’t – he enjoys startling the new people. She’s pretty sure he just enjoys yelling sometimes just for no real reason at all.)  
  
  
Before she can though, he continues. “Oh, I did!” he brightens again. “Petunia,” he leans against her desk, whispering in an absurdly conspiratorial tone, “I think I have a meeting today. Something about marketing.” He snaps his fingers repetitively as he tries to think - out of the corner of her eye she can see a woman glare at him over the edge of her cubicle.   
  
  
“Yes, Mr. Mantlo is coming at 2:30 PM to speak with you about the print ads,” she answers the prompt without having to look anything up - Petunia doesn’t bother to ask what happened to his calendar, the one she is sure he was given (she gave it to him, after all) since she knows his schedule inside and out anyway.   
  
  
“Mr. Mantlo. 2:30,” he repeats to himself, very seriously, as if trying to commit it to memory. (It never works – that’s why she had given him the _now missing_ calendar.) The seriousness doesn’t last long though and he switches to the grin again. “Lunch?” he asks, tilting his head like a puppy (purposefully pushing her with the over-juvenile, cuteness unfitting a man his age and position).  
  
  
In direct response to his absurdity she loses even more expression and the words, “Turkey club on rye, from the deli across the street. I already ordered it,” seem almost robotic from the amount of inflection she uses.  
  
  
“Thanks, you’re the best,” he says jovially, his smile becoming almost insanely wide, and hitting her desk before pointing at her (complete with ridiculous finger guns). She only raises her eyebrow in response and he cackles like she has told a great joke and wanders in the direction of his office again.  
  
  
He is, of course, almost all the way there (in the door frame in fact), when he yells, “What time, again?”   
  
  
( _The pens and papers go flying again and inwardly she sighs – perhaps Davidson should be transferred, his nerves might not be able to take this. She’d have to make the suggestion quietly to Jon from HR, who’d become a bit of a friend, he’d be sure to make it seem like a good thing to the jumpy man._ )  
  
  
“Mr. Mantlo. 2:30 PM, Mr. Peterson,” she responds in an utter monotone, barely raising her voice – it wasn’t really necessary.   
  
  
“Thanks, Petunia,” he responds, still yelling and she bites the inside of her cheek not to let her lips twitch.  
  
  
Another, much quieter, person makes her way over soon after - leaning against her desk with a mug of tea. (Well, much quieter compared to Mr. Peterson. She was well aware of her approach from the clunk of the ubiquitous boots.)  
  
  
“You should say something if he keeps bothering you like that,” the curvy woman said, matter of factly, pushing her loose wavy brown hair out of her face.  
  
  
Petunia glances up at Meghan, frown spreading across her face. “Who said I was bothered?”  
  
  
“It’s one of the reasons we’ve had such a hard time keeping secretaries in the past,” Meghan confided, in a low tone. “He means well and he’s brilliant – but Peterson is an absolute hyperactive child and it can be a bit much for some to take.”   
  
  
Petunia’s eye glanced briefly to the door their boss had left through before she shrugged dismissively. “Then I’ll just continue to treat him like a child. I seem to be the one keeping track of his schedule and eating habits anyway.”  
  
  
Meghan let out a bark of a laugh. “You’re a riot, Petunia,”  
  
  
She just looked up at her uncomprehendingly – the statement had been meant in all seriousness - which, if anything, set the woman off in earnest.  
  
  
“Oh, Petunia,” she asked, when she had her giggles under control. “I’ve been meaning to ask you – thought I might as well before I went and dug through the contract, you always seem to know – what’s company policy on freelance work? I’ve gotten some offers lately and don’t know whether I should just turn them down.”   
  
  
She easily rattled off the line from memory, smiling a bit inside that this no longer made her feel uneasy - that so many found this odd quirk of hers useful, had almost come to depend upon it here. After she had gotten the job, Petunia had made sure to work her way through all of the dense paperwork, that no one else ever really read, common to all office jobs. In this electronics field, that was her employment now, there were seemingly mountains of it. And it wasn’t hard to find time to read through it all in the very beginning, when, unsure of her capabilities, they gave her so very little to do outside of answering phones.   
  
  
She never claimed to understand all the contract legalese, patent information, and electronics information she could spout off – but she _could_ recite it verbatim. And that had proved to be valuable time and time again.  
  
  
Which, in turn, had made her useful – and that felt _good_. She might just be a secretary but she felt confident in her position, in _herself_ even.   
  
  
Petunia had never really felt that before.  
  
  
Now, at this point in her life, within her twin roles of single parent and office worker – she was actually more comfortable in her skin than she ever had been before.  
  
  
There was plenty she did not know (plenty that she feared – especially when it came to Harry’s future) but she was capable and had accomplished so much more through determination than she had ever thought herself able.   
  
  
Things had changed, and they would continue to do so – but so had _she._   
  
  
And that was a good thing.


	26. chapter twenty-six: distinct roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
Their first real argument isn’t over anything she would ever expect.  
  
  
They have all of the usual little fights of course: he pouts sometimes over having to eat his greens, there are many times he wants to play instead of doing chores, she has to nag him insistently about finishing his homework. But these are very simple things (conversations that have gone on between children and parents for generations) and there usually isn’t much in the way of true anger.  
  
  
But when Harry is eight there is an argument that starts to crop up between them again and again.  
  
  
“ _Tune_ ,” he says and she can hear how frustrated he sounds. She has her back to him and fists her hands against the counter where he can’t see. She closes her eyes and tries to count to ten, to keep her patience.  
  
  
( _six, seven, eight_ ….)  
  
  
“ _Tune_ ,” he repeats, louder.  
  
  
“Alright,” she snaps, turning around suddenly – only realizing from his startled expression that she has said that much louder than she intended. “ _Alright_ ,” she says again, much softer, “we’ll talk about it. Let’s go sit on the sofa, Harry.”  
  
  
It is a short way – their apartment is not large and both the “ _living_ ” and “ _dining_ ” area comingle. Harry refuses to relax upon the couch cushion, sits up straight, pushes up those gold frames and looks at her with utter seriousness. But after a prolonged moment of trying to figure out what to say his eyes just drop – and he slumps, energy leaving him abruptly.  
  
  
It makes something in her give too, because – well, they never really fight. It’s no wonder neither of them is any good at it. And he looks so small now, slumped miserably liked that – he _is_ small. Still so young, still her Harry.  
  
  
And so she pulls him to her, gathers him up in her arms. Harry throws his small, thin arms around her neck instantly and cuddles against her. They just sit there for a moment and when he finally speaks, his voice is a whisper - but it doesn’t matter because they are so close.  
  
  
“We – we go every year, Tune. To see them, to _remember_ them. That’s what you always tell me - ,” he picks at the collars of her shirt, not looking her in the eye, “that the reason we go is to remember our _family_.” She says nothing, rubs his back soothingly and lets him talk. He bites his lip for before he begins again. “Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, and my cousin,” he stops after the recitation, smoothing out the fabric his fingers have been attacking and just staring at it. She watches his profile carefully, the way he is frowning, the tension she can see in his see in his shoulders - can feel all through him.  
  
  
“When I go back to school and write ‘Harry _Potter_ ’ after that each year it feels weird, Tune,” he admits, even quieter than before. “The grave says _Evans_. Mom was an Evans. _You_ are an Evans - can’t _I_ be one too?” he pleads, looking her in the eye now.  
  
  
“Your father,” she began haltingly because she felt it must be said. She has tried to tell him all she knows about James Potter over the years but that has never been much.  
  
  
When she was younger – before she went off to vocational school to take typing classes - she only really remembers hearing Lily venting about him to their mother. Apparently there was something under that annoyance however or he simply grew into a person she liked better – _loved_. But she doesn’t really know any of the story of how that happened – and doesn’t feel it right to lie to Harry and make one up.  
  
  
She only met him in person twice, neither went especially well. One was a double date between both recently engaged couples – and there really wasn’t a chance for it from the start (she is really surprised they even agreed to meet, to be honest). The women didn’t even have to do anything, didn’t even have a chance for their old bad childhood interactions to resurface; both men were proud and very _very_ different and it had rubbed wrong. The night had ended with Vernon and her leaving in a huff and Lily crying.  
  
  
The second was her wedding – she and had refused to have Lily be a bridesmaid and James had been there sitting in the pews holding her sister’s hand. But she wouldn’t feel guilty about it then, refused to be outshone by her sister _again_ on this one day that was supposed to be _hers._ (And she never even attended their wedding at all.)  
  
  
It is difficult to use these things to piece together a full person for a child, to tell him who his father is. But she _tries_ anyway – ends up mainly expressing to Harry how much they loved each other, how much they loved _him_. Lily and James – and James, to her chagrin, has becomes more of an addendum to her sister. But she hasn’t really known what to do to fix that, doesn’t even have a picture of the man.  
  
  
Now though, Harry doesn’t even let her try to defend the man she barely met. He is shaking his head even as she starts to speak. “James is my middle name, I have Dad with me right there. _Please_ , Tune. You’re my family.”  
  
  
And Petunia felt herself start to give into the plea so very similar to her own reasoning for returning to her maiden name – for returning to Cokeworth. The wish for distinct roots of some sort, for family - and he came to it on his own, had obviously been thinking about it for a very long time. She would feel hypocritical to deny him, especially since she has been trying to encourage Harry to make decisions from a young age. (Petunia really shouldn’t be as surprised by this, considering.)  
  
  
“I’ll file the paperwork, Harry. But,” she warns him as she sees him light up with excitement, “these sorts of things don’t happen instantly. The government takes a while to process things….” Her warnings are for naught though, because she is rocked back on the couch by a sudden tackle hug from the boy who is her _family_.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Away from my computer for a few days – I’ll be back to daily posting on Sunday (6/23)!


	27. HIATUS

**HIATUS:** My last few days of absence were partially forced due to a continued problem with the muscles in my dominant arm. I thought a few days would help ease this (that has been the case before) but it is worse this time. And so as not to continue to damage and cause unnecessary pain to my rather important limb, I am going to cease most of my typing/computer use outside of work.   
  
  
What this means is that this story (and any of my others) are on hiatus for the time being - not abandoned, that is an important distinction. I have written a great deal of the chapters for future events already and have copious notes sprawling Harry's multiple year's through Hogwarts and how Tune will help him through. My interest in this story is not gone – far from it, it stays in my brain rather constantly - it is simply my body that is proving difficult. This is the first long thing I have typed in a while and it is quite painful to do so (it is amazing how many muscles you use in your wrist and arm, as well as how aware of them you are when they are screaming at you).   
  
  
I also wish to apologize for not responding to recent reviews - I have tried, in the past, to answer each and every one. But, as I previously stated, typing has proven difficult. I can only say that I do appreciate your continued support and feedback and thank you once more.  
  
  
Until I post again! Ta!  
  
  
-smolder


	28. chapter twenty-seven: muscle and bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Hey everyone! Thank you for all of the well wishes and kind notes during my hiatus from this story. I'm going to try to get back into this again but I won't be posting daily like before - I'm aiming for more like once or twice a week. And as always, reviews are good!

  
She is startled sometimes by the fact that she looks different.  
  
Not in a drastic sense – and it didn’t happen from just one day to the other. But some mornings, while getting ready for work, she looks up from brushing out her teeth and is surprised by how very different she looks from a few years ago.  
  
Petunia never enjoyed looking at herself in the mirror – was always quick to pick out her own flaws ( _knows her teeth large, her body over skinny, her neck and limbs too long – used to be called a horse in the schoolyard, neighing sounds and laughter following her, making her duck her head, cheeks flaming_ ) but she looks now. Can see the way her pale skin has gotten, not _tan_ , but a bit more pigment to it after spending most of her weekends watching over Harry and Robyn as they play around in the park.   
  
She leans a bit closer to the glass, seeing the faint freckles sprinkled across her nose – not entirely surprised or, honestly, bothered by them – but vowing with herself to use more sunscreen anyway. It probably didn’t help that she accrued sun exposure from walking to work everyday too – still putting off getting a car (and the payments it would entail). Rather convinced, at this point, that they didn’t need one in Cokeworth ( _perfectly fine getting most places on two feet and the bus is there for the further ones_ ).  
  
Leaning away again she glances down at her body, clad in modest button up shirt and skirt, meditatively. Her walking had caused changes there too – _so you’re muscle and bone now instead of just skin and bone, eh?_ that little voice inside of her says. She ignores it ( _mostly_ ) – it’s not as if it’s much muscle anyway. But walking every day for years, not to mention keeping up with two little kids and making sure the apartment is to rights - it has toned her body a bit. Even the annoying little voice inside of her can’t ignore that.  
  
Standing up straight again she efficiently pulls her hair back into a low pony tail, frowns at how much she has to twist her wrist to get it through, turns sideways and tries to judge critically how long it is getting. Petunia gets her hair cut each time it grows past her shoulder blades but both Harry and Robyn had complained loudly when she had causally mentioned chopping it back to the shorter length she used to have. ( _It baffles her why they would care, but they seem very adamantly against it._ )  
  
For now though, she is done – her hair length is _fine_ and a check of her watch shows that this has already taken too long. With a frustrated sigh at her own silliness, she opens the bathroom door.  
  
“Harry,” she calls, “are you ready? Packed all of your things in your backpack yet? And don’t forget the homework you left out in the kitchen last night,” she reminds automatically. “The bus gets here in ten minutes.”  
  
A thump and running footsteps from down the hall answers that question, and brings a smile to her face even as she shakes her head.


	29. chapter twenty-eight: hidden treasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
  
  
  
He pulled a shirt out of the bag and ran his fingers over the well worn fabric, humming to himself with the music on the radio in the background – a grin breaking out when Robyn joined in when it hit the chorus, only singing half the words and making up the rest (but doing so with great confidence).   
  
Just as Robyn was basically adopted into the Evans’ family ( _and just the sound of that name made him smile, he loved that he could claim it now – that it was his. His and Tune’s_ ), Harry was pretty much doubled as a Baker to the rest of her family.   
  
( _It was inconsequential to anyone that mattered that they looked nothing alike, didn’t even have the same skin color. Really, he didn’t physically look much like Tune either - their hair and eyes were completely different - but they were definitely family_.)   
  
This included the age old practice of hand-me-downs. It was oddly fun, her cousins would out-grow clothes and aunts or uncles would come by with bags of things for them to pick through. Robyn and him would sit on the floor and shift through all the different colors and patterns of fabric, throwing boy or girl things at the right person, finding hidden treasures and showing off things to the other person ( _little holes could be patched, arm lengths and hems adjusted_ ) - and laughing together at some of the sillier looking items.  
  
It worked in a cycle because Harry had helped Tune bag up his old toys and the clothes he had out grown – and he knew they went to Nelly ( _or Neil but that was a rather serious name for a baby so the nickname was sticking much to the parents’ consternation_ ). It felt good to know he was a part of this, that his old trucks and things kept getting more use, that they would make the little boy, who giggled and tried to catch his fingers when he made shadow puppets, happy.   
  
He liked that. Liked the familiar feel of Tune's plain cotton summer dress ( _adjusted by Nana as well because: "It hangs on you dear, there's no need for that. Now, come here and stand still"_ ) when his arms wrapped around her middle – hugging her tight, as he always did, as soon as she walked in the door, home from work.   
  
It all ( _the people, the music, the hand-me-downs, the place, the food, the smells_ ) just felt like family to him.


End file.
